


Bittersweet Immortality

by TinyDemonWriter



Series: Family Isn't Forged from Blood [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Hurt/Comfort, I apologize in advance, It Gets Better?, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, big big big thanks to the wonderful dakota aka tbhyourelame for the idea, cryptid AU, depressive episodes, i took it and fuckin sprinted with it, like a lot of it, slight bits of starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyDemonWriter/pseuds/TinyDemonWriter
Summary: Life is a fickle thing, short and intense for many. Too short for most.But Dream? Dream has all the time in the world. It's a bittersweet feeling, to know you'll outlive everyone around you. To know anyone you love or hate will be gone as time passes and the sound of their laughter or their blood will fade away into the sands of a memory too extensive to keep track of.Makes one wonder if love is really worth it, in the end.Or how Dream loves, loses, loves, loses, and wonders why he has to do this, over and over and over again. And if he'll meet anyone that makes the pain worth it.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Family Isn't Forged from Blood [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072445
Comments: 65
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

Dream is seven years old the first time he goes to a funeral.

It’s a happy affair. His grandfather passed at nearly seventy years old, among the oldest in his village. The funeral is a celebration of life, with poems and songs being told or made on the day.

They have a feast, everyone gathering around for bread and for the first apples of the season. They’re bitter and they’re sweet, and the crunch they make as Dream bites into them hurts his teeth as much as the sound soothes him.

His mother leaves behind coins, laid on the slab where his grandfather's body lays. There are tears staining her cheeks as she kisses his forehead and Dream looks away.

Children gather round as the other elders, all younger than his grandfather, but nearing it, tell stories of him. They’re mundane anecdotes that have been given a breath of life with his passing. Stories of him helping friends and family. Stories of making bread with his grandmother, before she passed.

It’s a happy affair, or so everyone says, but Dream can’t help but feel like a stone is sinking into his stomach, tearing up his insides. He looks to his mother and knows she feels the same, though she hides it with a smile.

That night, they burn his body, though Dream isn’t there for it. His mother had taken him home for the evening, but he still sees the smoke in the distance. Can still hear his mother’s sobs from the other room. Can still taste the salt of tears that won’t stop flowing.

He’s supposed to be asleep, but he can’t. He creeps outside of his room, trying to seek out his mother. More tears flood his eyes without his permission. He doesn’t know why he’s still crying, funerals are supposed to be happy. They are supposed to be a celebration of life, everyone at the village had said so.

But his heart still hurts, fragile glass cracking under the weight of a loss he can’t quite comprehend.

He finds her in the center room. The fire has long since burned out, only embers remaining. The room is dark without it, but the light of a thousand stars helps guide him to her. He collapses in front of her, and she wraps strong arms around him, pulling him into a bone crushing embrace.

“I’m sorry, my heart,” she whispers, though Dream doesn’t really know why. It’s not her fault after all. But still, the tears overflow and he returns the hug just as fiercely. They cry for what could be minutes but feels like hours, until he can’t anymore.

Funerals are a happy affair, yes, a celebration of life, of course. But they’re as bitter as they are sweet. Dream’s too young to really understand it, but his mother helps. She soothes his pain with a gentle sweetness, as she presses kisses into his hair. They talk of happy times and it helps.

Still, he can see the burden it places upon his mother’s shoulders, the loss following her like an aching shadow. Her hands shake and she gets paler. The circles under her eyes get darker and the village elders always send them worried looks when they get into town.

Months pass and it’s hard, being stared at. It was difficult enough when their stares were full of disdain. Judging him for his father never sticking around. The pity in their gazes is somehow worse.

Still, time marches forward and Dream grows taller, shooting up quicker than his mother can sew new clothes for. Her shoulders get lighter and her skin tans and she smiles again. Dream smiles again. There are still bad days, but they’re far outweighed by the good.

It’s on one of these good days that Dream plants the tree, his mother giving up in her attempts to teach him to make flower crowns.

His hands are caked in mud and dirt, and his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a little sapling next to him and he’s trying to make the hole deep enough for it. His mother hums from where she sits at the edges of the clearing and it’s nice. He hasn’t heard her sing in a while and it’s a joy to hear it again.

It really is a good day.

Finally, after what feels like ages the hole is big enough to comfortably set the sapling in. With gentle hands, he lifts it and places it in the space he carved out for it. He grins, eyes crinkling up in joy and delight as he looks at what he’s done.

It had taken a long time for the little seed he planted with his mom to get big enough to survive outside in this little clearing, but he’s happy for it. He’s created something that will last for decades to come. Something that will outlive him by centuries and he couldn’t be happier. It’s a bittersweet feeling, but he enjoys it.

He carefully fills in the hole around him, listening to the sweet sound of his mother’s voice as he works. Her voice travels closer as dirt wiggles its way under his nails, and it comes to a gentle stop as a shadow falls over him.

He looks up to see his mother smiling down at him, before his vision goes dark. He pulls the thing off of his face, and gently holds the flower crown his mother has given him.

“What do you think?” she asks, eyes sparking with a delight that he hasn’t seen in the years since his grandfather had passed.

“It’s so pretty!” He says earnestly, but he isn’t just talking about the crown. He hasn’t seen his mother really smile in what feels like so long and he feels his own lips curve to mirror the sight of it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to know how to do so?” She asks and laughs at the face he makes. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to, but he’s  _ busy _ right now, and he says as much, waving his hands in her face.

She laughs, a loud, boisterous thing that echoes throughout the clearing and his grin grows ever larger. He would do anything to make her smile stay, to make sure she doesn’t lose anyone else again.

He refuses to be the reason she’s sad again.

He returns to his work, gently covering roots with soft dirt and listens as she begins to hum again. She’s sitting beside him this time, weaving red tulips and yellow daffodils into another crown.

It’s a good day.

He’s nearly done when the humming stops, as her body is wracked with coughs. He freezes for a second before his head snaps up in concern. She’s been coughing lately, but this is the worst he’s ever heard.

He catches a glimpse of red before her hand is on her lap and she smiles again, apologizing for distracting him.

He tells himself the red was a tulip petal. The lie rings hollow even within the confines of his mind.

It’s the last good day they have for a while.

He wanted to outlive her, yes, but not like this. He didn’t want to be the cause of her pain, but  _ not like this _ .

The villagers' pity only grows, becomes a weight that he can feel everytime he goes into town for a new cure that never works. He’s desperate for something, anything to help his mother live just a few more days, but her condition only gets worse.

The coughing gets worse and he can no longer trick himself into thinking what comes up isn’t blood. His mother still smiles but it’s weaker, and the circles under her eyes are darker than they’ve ever been. Months pass and Dream can see the weight falling off of her. Can see the tiredness sink into her skin and make its home in her bones.

He starts wearing a mask when he has to go into the village. Anything to avoid the pity in their gazes.

“I’m sorry, my heart,” she whispers to him, pressing soft kisses into his hair. He cries into her, uncaring of the blood her lips leave behind. She hums lightly to him as he sobs into her arms.

She passes with a smile on her lips, relief evident even as her eyes stay locked open, gaze unseeing.

He doesn’t go to her funeral, can’t bring himself to. Funerals are supposed to be a celebration and even after a week of preparation he can’t find any joy within himself.

Instead he goes to the clearing of the last happy day he had, so many months ago. He’s surprised to see the tree is alive and well, for he hasn’t come to visit since that day. There’s something bittersweet in the remembrance that he planted it knowing it would outlive him.

He sits beside it, careful not to lean on it. It’s still so thin, so fragile, and he knows it would break him if he saw this go, too. He stays there, silent except for the occasional bird or sound of wind blowing through the trees, and feels a sort of peace.

When night falls, he makes his way back to an empty home. The fireplace is dark and he swears he can smell ash in the wind. He collapses into bed and pretends he can't taste the salt on his tongue as tears stain his pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

Dream spends his days in the clearing, in the peace and tranquility of it. He rarely visits the village but when he does it’s at night, and with his mask firmly on.

He’s quiet, quieter than he’s ever been. The loss has him wracked with grief and it is now that he understands his mother best. Ironic, that it is only with her gone that he finds himself understanding her.

Days turn into weeks turn into months and soon it’s been nearly two years since his mother died. He has visited her grave only once in that time, and left behind a flower crown made with shaky hands and little skill. He cried that day, retreating to the clearing where he let himself lean back on the trunk of a tree only barely strong enough to hold him up.

It’s in this clearing that he begins to speak again.

Softly at first, throat hoarse with disuse. He talks of pain, of loss, of his fragile, aching heart and it hurts. By the gods does it hurt. But sometimes when a bone doesn’t heal right you have to break it first.

He cuts himself open, by himself in that clearing with a tree he hopes will outlive him, and stitches himself together. He bleeds the rotten black blood of anguish out of his body and lets himself heal into someone a little smaller, a little quieter, but strong nonetheless.

Over time he talks about the village. He starts going there during the day again and their stares hurt but none can penetrate his mask and he’s thankful for it. He talks to the village baker, a kind man with warm brown eyes that make him feel safe in a strange way. He’s the only one to look at Dream with sympathy instead of pity and slides him an extra roll with his purchases.

Dream talks about him, Demetrius, and feels lighter for it. He talks for ages until his voice gets hoarse from talking too much and he puts himself together, jagged piece by jagged piece, until he begins to feel human again.

He doesn’t take anyone to the clearing, though. The place is his and his alone, so when he spots a man in  _ his _ clearing, he’s instantly defensive.

“What are you doing here?” Dream calls out, lips set in a snarl. Part of him is thankful that he has his mask on, but the larger part is too angry to care. This is his safe spot and having someone else here clouds his mind instead of clearing it.

The man whirls around and Dreams anger is nearly wiped out by his confusion.

Large -glasses? no, not glasses but something similar- cover the top portion of what is clearly a kid’s face. His cheeks are round and flushed with youth, a large grin on his face with a single canine missing.

The brown toga Dream thought he was wearing, isn’t? A toga? Instead it’s a large -leather? upon closer inspection yes, it is leather and how does this kid have the money for that?- leather cloak? But it’s not a cloak, not quite. It’s too form fitting with sleeves where his arms are slotted through. His tunic is also not a tunic, too short, and it looks thicker than what Dream is wearing.

Also what is on this kid’s legs? They’re form fitting and Dream would almost say he’s not wearing anything with how tight they are, but they’re too dark a color to match his face. They can’t be very comfortable, lacking the air to breath.

A glint catches his eyes and he’s drawn to the gold circle in the kid’s hands. He has no idea what it is, but he’s never seen something shaped so perfectly round and so shiny in its polish.

The kid opens his mouth and all anger leaves to be washed away with total confusion. Dream has no idea what the kid is saying, but he looks excited, glancing down at his watch and back to Dream multiple times. Dream is totally lost as the kid babbles at him excitedly.

“Uh, right,” he says, and wonders if maybe he ate something strange. The bread that Demetrius had given him that morning was a tad stale, how old was it again?

The kid looks at him, confusion marring his features and he speaks a line of complete gibberish again.

“Look kid, I don’t know who you are or what you are or why you’re here but do you think you could-”

Dream just barely catches the look of realization on the kid's face before he just… Disappears.

Dream doesn’t know how else to describe it. One second he’s there, the next a flash of light and strange symbols that linger on the back of Dream’s eyelids as he blinks rapidly to dispel the pain.

He’s shocked into silence. He takes a deep breath, walks toward the tree and sits, head in his hands.

“What the fuck?” He whispers to himself. “What the fuck?” He repeats louder. He pinches himself and, yes, he felt that, it hurt, so yes that was very much real.

“What the fuck? Did you- Am I hallucinating here?” He asks the empty air. Perhaps the fact that he’s mainly been talking to a tree for the past couple years is getting to his head, but Dream doesn’t have the words to describe what he saw, much less the imagination to create it.

He slowly settles into the present again, pushing past the miasma of confusion the stranger left behind. Assuming he isn’t crazy, that happened, and if he is crazy? Well, it could be worse right?

He relaxes against the tree’s trunk a few minutes later, letting the incident fade into memory and talks about his day, deciding to forget the stranger’s appearance.

And for the most part he is successful. He goes on about his life, talking to Demetrius and his newly betrothed wife, Solaris. They look so in love and it hurts like honey trickling down Dream’s throat. So sweet and so lovely, but choking him all the same.

He tells the tree as much, sitting under its swaying branches, staring up at a sky speckled with the eyes of the god-touched. He wonders if his mother is up there, blessed by them, but deep in his heart of hearts he knows she’s not. Still, it’s nice to think of all the same.

Dream wonders what she’d think of him. Would she be proud of him? Would she be ashamed? He knows she would want him to smile, but it’s so hard sometimes. He takes the mask off his face, his protector and his crutch, and looks into the blank surface.

Some feeling overtakes him, as he remembers the first time he smiled after her death. Something bitter and choking but he knows it’s what his mother would want. He wouldn’t want her to mourn her forever.

He reaches out, where he knows there’s a small cut on the tree. It terrified him, the day he saw it, but he knows now the tree is stronger than that. Knows it will take far more to fell it. His hand touches upon thick, sticky sap, and he dips his fingers into it.

Choosing not to think so much about it, Dream draws a crude smiley face. The moonlight catches the glint of the sap, the only way he can see it. He frowns down at it, at the difficulty of being able to discern it.

Sticky fingers dig into the dirt around him. He grabs a handful and rubs it over the mask. It smears the smile just a bit, but it’s still fitting somehow.

Dream is sorry that he can’t bring himself to smile some days, but if his mother is looking down on him from the heavens, he doesn’t want her to see him frown. Doesn’t want to cause her pain. When he meets her again one day, he wants her to see his smile.

And until that day, a crudely drawn one will have to do.

He slides the mask back on, and stares back up at the stars. One day they’ll meet back up in the fields of Asphodel. Until then, Dream vows to live his life to the fullest so he can tell his mother enough stories to make her feel like she had lived a full life, too.

Between one blink and the next it’s daylight and he hears a loud pop beside him. Blinking open groggy eyes, he stares up at the face above him.

It’s the kid again but not? His face is less round, though it’s hard to see detail given that he’s casting a shadow over Dream, blocking the sun’s harsh gaze.

There’s also the addition of a weirdly tall hat on the kids head, but that’s beside the point.

“Wake!” the kid says, accent making the word almost indecipherable. Almost.

“What?” Dream slurs, blinking rapidly. Maybe this is a dream and he’s just vividly recalling the kid but older?

It’s too early for this.

“Wake!” The kid -man?- repeats again, more insistent. With a yawn, Dream complies. He may as well enjoy the dream while it lasts, right?

As Dream stretches the… person rejoices and starts babbling gibberish again. His voice is significantly deeper this time, and he’s taller too. It’s been a couple weeks since he last saw the kid, but there’s no way he’s changed this much in so little time. It makes no sense.

This whole situation makes no sense, really, thinking about it, but Dream doesn’t want to do that right now, so he’s just going to go with it for now.

As Dream wakes himself up, the person whirls back around to him, grin bordering on manic. “Me,” he says slowly, pointing to himself, “Wilbur. You are?”

“Dream,” he replies. And Wilbur’s grin is so bright it hurts, and Dream realizes that this could be the start of something unfathomable, and something wondrous for it.

Wilbur explains, in his broken, choppy Greek, that he’s from the future. Though it sounds ridiculous, the explanation settles into Dream’s bones and it feels right. Feels natural. Wilbur talks at great length about his home, London, and about the strange portable clock in his hand and how he found it.

When Dream asks about the gibberish, Wilbur lights up once more and says he can teach Dream, and Dream nods, a small, careful smile growing underneath his mask.

Later he wonders if he should have even talked to the stranger. Yes, he thinks immediately. He feels as though he’s been going through a haze the past couple years, with only the brief hints of clarity when talking to his tree or to Demetrius and Solaris. And this stranger, confused as he makes Dream, also makes Dream feel alive.

There’s a wonder to Wilbur. The gleam in his eye is manic and his grin is so large as to take up his whole face and he looks so alive, in all the ways Dream feels he isn’t. In the moments where Wilbur pops in, he thinks he can learn to feel again, in a way that isn’t muted by the loss of his family.

He learns how to feel frustrated again, in their lessons over this “English” that Wilbur speaks. How to feel delight when Wilbur looks at him in confusion when Dream says something Wilbur can’t translate. Wonder when he brings back things from the future.

Helplessness, when Dream’s mask shatters and Wilbur see’s his face for the first time. When Dream is shaking apart and trying to keep his face hidden so he can’t feel the weight of a thousand piteous stares at the ugly sight of his tears and despair.

Hope when Wilbur leaves only to return a few seconds later, a new mask in hand. It’s almost pure white with only a perfect, black smiley face on its surface.

A familial kind of love that scares him, when Wilbur jokingly says he’s Dreams older, younger brother. The one that Dream has always wanted but never was able to have. Playfulness, when Wilbur plants a trap at the tree’s base and laughs as Dream falls into it.

He meets many different Wilbur's, most of them young and joyous, a few older and sadder. It makes Dream wonder what the future has in store for Wilbur, to make him look like he’s Atlas, the weight of the world on too gentle shoulders.

One day a version of Wilbur, hands weathered with age, and rough with callouses, greets him in the grove. He says nothing, just grabs Dream and tucks him under his chin, grasping on tightly.

It scares Dream, this future that Wilbur seems to have gone through. He hopes things are okay when Wilbur leaves again.

Time passes and Dream gets better at living again. Gets better at smiling. He can’t let go of the mask just yet, but he doesn’t need it with a desperation that hurts anymore. He goes to Demetrius and Solaris’ wedding. It’s beautiful and Dream learns he can cry from joy, too.

The day he brings them to meet the tree and Wilbur is one of the happiest memories he has. Their confusion and fear quickly gave way to jubilance and excitement. Dream plays translator, because even though Wilbur’s accent has gotten better, when he’s in his twenties, it still twists the words in strange ways.

His life passes in bittersweet joy. He falls in love, a beautiful woman named Gelasia who teaches Dream adoration. Whose laugh is like music to his ears. They make love under the moonlight, the night of their wedding, in a clearing of happy memories and rose tinted starlight.

Her hand is firm in his, the day he attends the funeral of Demetrius, and Solaris soon after. Peaceful deaths that hurt all the same, but Dream finds it easier to smile through the tears. Recollections of sticky sweets and warm contentment.

The mask is firmly on his face and his wife smiles softly at him. Though he never wears it at home, she understands why he must wear it here.

It hurts, but he learns to enjoy the memory of his friends regardless. Learns to celebrate their lives while also mourning their passing.

That night, Gelasia gently takes the mask off. She kisses away his tears, the low fire in the hearth seeping its golden warmth around him. Snaking its arms around them as she comforts him and he holds onto her. As he wipes her tears away in thanks. 

She gets older and the realization that he isn’t is a slow one.

It’s a strange feeling, aging. For most, it’s almost unnoticeable. The changes occur so slowly that it isn’t until it’s brought up that anyone really notices. Hair fades to gray and hands grow leathery. Lines of hardship or joy carve their way onto one's face. Skin becomes mottled and wrinkled with age.

Age creeps on so slowly it takes a while for Dream to notice that it isn’t approaching him.

He looks at his wife’s hand in his and is startled by how smooth his hand is in comparison to hers. The hardship of being unable to have children has carved it’s way onto Gel’s face, but there’s no trace of that on Dream’s. Valleys of joy line the corners of her mouth, and Dream’s stays soft.

It’s a slow and horrific realization, the fact that he’s seeing his wife age before his very eyes and he’s stubbornly in the body of his youth.

The day of her funeral is a nightmare. Wilbur shows up but only briefly. It’s the first time he’s noticed the oddity of Dream’s unaging stature, as out of touch with time as he is. He goes to comfort Dream and Dream snaps at him, screaming and sobbing.

Wilbur looks so scared but Dream can’t bring himself to care. He screams and collapses, distantly noting the sound of Wilbur leaving this point in time.

He attends her funeral, after screaming himself hoarse. The villagers all stare at him, and Dream pulls his mask down more firmly on his face. They whisper of him, whisper of curses and the gods' wrath.

He leaves an hour later, and the mask stays firmly on his face. It’s pitch black, the moon not lighting the ground, his hearth utterly devoid of anything. He packs a few sets of clothes, and sets out for a destination he doesn’t have a name for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna have this be a kinda happy ending but the discord requested this so here we are! bone apple teeth!
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, concerns, etc. feel free to comment or direct them to my [tumblr](https://tinydemondragon.tumblr.com/)! I’m more likely to see it there first!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for a depressive episode. It's not stated explicitly, but it's pretty clear that's what it is. Also, starvation and dying and coming back. If you have any concerns, don't hesitate to ask me on my [tumblr](https://tinydemondragon.tumblr.com/) and i'll summarize what you need to know!

Dream wanders for a few years.

He hardly notes the passage of time, lost in his own head as he is. He walks, stops and sits in the shade. Walks, trips, dusts off dirt from stained clothes and ignores bony fingers. Walks, blacks out for a length of time he doesn’t know.

Sometimes he remembers to eat. Fruit from the trees around him or stealing food from the occasional farm he crosses. Once he managed to trap a rabbit and he taught himself how to skin it that evening. It took a week to wash all the blood out.

Most of the time, however, he doesn’t remember. He just walks until his body gives out on him. When he wakes, he notices the fact that his body isn’t rail thin anymore and he walks again.

Dream loses track of time.

He never asked for immortality. All he asked is that he outlived his mother. He doesn’t want to see everyone he loves pass.

_ You already have _ , a voice whispers in the back of his head and he viciously shuts the door on it. He knows this but he doesn’t want to accept it.

He can’t accept it.

Sometimes he doesn’t walk at all. There are days where he sleeps and sleeps and it aches.

He dreams, when he sleeps. He dream’s of soft arms and loud voices. Gentle caresses after harsh fights. Hands holding his face and telling him it will be okay.

Sleeping hurts because it’s the only comfort he allows himself and he hates himself for it. When he wakes he’s reminded of how alone he is.

Wilbur hasn’t come to visit, and Dream starts to regret the things he yelled. Regrets telling him that he wouldn’t understand loss as though Dream never saw the Wilbur who looked seconds from crumbling.

He wonders if he burned that bridge, if it’s too broken too repair, then shuts the door on that thought, too.

He walks.

The thing about being immortal, as he’s come to learn, is that all it does is keep you from dying. It doesn’t keep the pain from making its home in your fragile heart. Doesn’t keep the pulsating black blood of agony from circling around your body, infecting your heart and brain.

He walks and he’s in a daze as he does it.

Distantly, after he’s passed out for the dozenth time, he knows that what he’s doing isn’t healthy. He knows Gelasia would firmly tell him to get up and face his despair head on. She’d tell him that he messed up and then kiss him sweetly regardless. She would tell him to find a way to contact Wilbur so he can fix his mess.

His mother would look at him with such sadness. Would tell him that she wants him to be happy.

He wonders what her expression would look like, and ignores the fact that he struggles with recalling her face.

Dream walks, collapses, wakes up and walks again.

It doesn’t matter that he knows what he’s doing is wrong because the feeling of apathy is an addicting one. It’s easier to tell himself that he doesn’t care, easier to let himself drift, because when he comes back to his body all the pain that’s building up will come crashing down. He’ll drown in the sorrow his apathy has been keeping at bay.

He doesn’t have a lifeboat to keep him afloat.

He walks.

The inky black sludge is deep within him now and he thinks, looking at his wrists. Dream thinks he can almost see the path it takes to his chest, making its home in his heart.

He thinks the darkness is the only thing keeping it from shattering completely.

Waking up, Dream finds, is both more and less painful than he thought it would be.

He first opens his bleary eyes in a town so large he almost can’t believe it. The village he was in was so small in comparison that the crowded streets almost makes him feel boxed in. For a second he thinks they’re all looking at him, pity in their gazes and eyes heavy with disdain, but when he actually looks, they aren’t.

No one is looking at him. No one cares. The liberation he gets at the realization is the most he’s felt in the past however long it’s been. It nearly brings him to his knees right then and there.

The crowd is loud and daunting. They are speaking a language he doesn’t understand and his mind flashes to Wilbur. A there and gone memory of learning under the canopy of a tree he hasn’t seen in eons. 

Dream thinks he catches a phrase of Greek and he swings his head around to locate it. He doesn’t find the source but his nose catches the sticky sweet scent of home in a person he hasn’t seen in so long. Tears start to come unbidden to his eyes as he follows its trail to a corner bakery.

He takes another step forward and gets bowled over by a young woman.

He blinks up at her in shock. Mostly because he just got slammed into the ground, but also because there is a familiarity about her that tugs on something deep within him. He catches a glimpse of warm brown eyes before she shouts something at him and leaves.

Laying there in the dirt, the smell of sweet honey and warm bread in the air, he’s accosted by the memory of love and life and what it means to be a person. 

Waking up is a slow process and Dream has never been a morning person.

He walks into the bakery and realizes he has no means of paying for anything. Nevertheless he walks in and basks in the memory of a time where he felt human. Before he knew of his affliction. Before he loved and lost.

The owner, a kind woman with crows feet around her eyes, speaks Greek, bless the Gods. When he sheepishly explains he’s here for the smell as it reminds him of home, her eyes go soft and she tells him he can stay for a bit.

He pretends he doesn’t feel tears slipping down his face at the kindness.

Dream sits there, and all the aches and pains from his constant walking catches up to him. He curls up in a chair in the corner and lets the memories flood in, lets the smell and warmth wash over him, lets the pain in his legs stop him and pull him under.

He takes deep, calming breaths, the way Demetrius taught him. He let’s tears slip down his face, the way Gelasia showed him was okay. He lets himself live in the moment, the way Solarius always did.

He recalls happy memories, and let’s the bitter tasting smile grace his lips, the way his mother did when she was alive.

Dream is left undisturbed at his chair in the corner for a long time. The sun has long since set when he comes back to himself, awareness trickling in slowly. First of the quiet sounds of humming, then of the dim candle light, then of the ache in his stomach and the numbness in his body gained from sitting still for too long.

Aemilia, the baker, gives him a look when he shifts in place. “Finally awake there, kid?” He startles, looking up at her.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he responded, unsure of what to say.

“Could have fooled me,” she said, though there was an undercurrent of amusement. Dream felt his shoulders relax at the tone.

“Apologies, my lady,” he returns, feeling himself settle into banter for the first time in a long time.

She lets out a snort, “Quiet, you. Wouldn’t want to piss off the gods now.”

Dream smiles. At one time he might have laughed, but that still seemed too far away from him now. Too much energy for the interaction.

Aemilia seemed to understand this, for she walked up to him. “You seem like a good kid, and it doesn’t seem as though life has been kind to you. Tonight, you may stay with myself and my husband. Tomorrow, we put you to work, understood.”

Dream blinked in astonishment and found himself agreeing before he even fully processed what she said. Before he knew it he was being dragged to meet Cassius, Aemilia’s husband, and put into a spare room for bed.

It takes him nearly three weeks to get used to sleeping on an actual bed and not just the cold ground.

In that time Aemilia teaches him how to make bread from the base ingredients. Food that is cheap and will sustain him. His mother had taken sick before she could show him and Gelasia always took care of the cooking and cleaning. Any bread he wanted he could get from Demetrius, as well as any sweets.

He’s never been taught how to create. It’s a novel experience.

His body is still weak, however, and he finds that kneading dough is far more difficult than he realized with his stick thin arms. Cassius is the one to help him then.

Cassius was a fighter, though he was too old for it now. Still, that meant he had survived war, and his age was something to be respected. His strength as well, as he put Dream on his back once more.

“Again,” he demanded, and Dream rolled to his feet, setting into a stance that wasn’t natural.

Yet.

This, too, was something that was new to him. He didn’t grow up with a father, and he had never been in any wars. Never needed to, as his village was practically in the middle of nowhere.

The shift and pull in his muscles was a physical ache that drowned out his emotional one. He had stamina to spare, as apparently walking for multiple years would help that, but his upper body strength was lacking.

He spends his days with Aemilia baking and selling goods, picking up whatever Latin he can. His evenings are spent with intense training with Cassius. He goes to bed aching, too exhausted to dream.

He was grateful for it, for though he wanted to heal, he was not ready to face the torment of his memories when he had no control over their recollection.

Dream’s body heals faster than his mind, and two months in he puts Cassius down, looking down the length of a sword and feels triumph surge through his veins.

There’s a certain amount of control to be felt in knowing that one more move could end someone’s life. He grins and feels his heart pumping quickly in his veins, sending savage joy coursing through his body.

“Good,” Cassius says, grin just as feral as his own as Dream helps him to his feet. “Again.”

Dream bakes, and speaks, and trains, and heals. It comes to a head one sleepless night. His body has adjusted, has grown muscular where once it was famished, and he’s not nearly as tired as he used to get. 

With a huff of frustration he throws off the covers and slips out of the house. He walks through the silent market, and climbs the walls to get out of the city.

He doesn’t really know where he’s going, he’s just moving because there is a restlessness that he can’t shake. A feeling that pushes him to move and it’s similar to the day he left his home, and it’s not.

He walks and then his feet stop as he sees Wilbur again.

Wilbur looks- he looks as tired as Dream still feels sometimes. He’s still young, around the same age as he was when Dream snapped at him. His hair is tousled and dark shadows are under his eyes, and his smile is hesitant.

Dream runs.

He runs and throws his arms around Wilbur’s skinny frame, knocking them both down to the ground but Dream doesn’t  _ care _ . Gods he’s just so happy to see Wilbur again, so happy to see that not every bridge has been burned and he’s apologizing before he even realizes. Lips forming the words over and over, in English, in Greek, in Latin.

Wilbur freezes in his arms and for a second Dream thinks he’s fucked up. Thinks that he’s made a mistake so large that any hope of salvage just went up in flames. And then Wilbur wraps his arms around Dream and  _ squeezes _ , muttering apologies as well.

They sit in each other's arms for a moment, still whispering apologies and “I missed you”s. With a deep breath, Dream pulls back and pulls off his mask.

He hasn’t shown Wilbur his face until just now, but this feels right. Feels  _ important _ .

It’s an act of trust. Of saying that he knows Wilbur won’t use this against him, won’t look at him with disgust or pity. Won’t be ashamed.

By the way Wilbur’s eyes widen, he understands what Dream can’t bring himself to say. “Thank you,” Wilbur whispers, hand coming up to sweep at the bruises under Dream’s eyes. “Thank you.”

It isn’t perfect immediately. They make a lot of headway that night, Dream explaining how he felt, apologizing again for taking it out on Dream. Wilbur apologizes for not visiting sooner, for leaving Dream to stew in his own agony.

Privately Dream is grateful Wilbur didn’t have to see him like that. He doesn’t give this thought voice, however, and pushes it to the back of his mind.

He doesn’t introduce Wilbur to Aemilia and Cassius, and he doesn’t analyze why that may be, content to live in the moment.

With Wilbur visiting again, Dream finds himself getting restless. He wants to do something, be something. He says as much to Cassius who gives him a searching look that leaves Dream feeling oddly exposed.

“You’re very good with a sword,” Cassius muses nonsensically. Dream knows this, Cassius has let him know this many times. Why it bares repeating, Dream doesn’t yet understand.

“There’s a war brewing, boy, and one I think you would do well in. You’d bring much pride to yourself and show yourself to be someone worthy of Elysium.” Cassius gives him a look out of the corner of his eye.

“I know someone who would be delighted to have you in your ranks, what do you think?”

And Dream, immortal Dream who can’t die, who has nothing to fear from death. Someone who wants to live in the moment and wants to make someone proud, wants to make his mother proud.

Dream grins sharply, “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit... mmm fillery? I guess? To me, which is why it's taken me a few days to write. Well, that and the secret skephalo side project I've got goin on. Anyway, this sets up a few important details that become relevant later but overall it's not my fave. That said, gonna be able to briefly introduce my fave next chapter. Can y'all guess who it is?
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, concerns, etc. direct them to my [tumblr](https://tinydemondragon.tumblr.com/)! I’m more likely to see it there first.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is difficult, even if you can't die.
> 
> Maybe especially if you can't die.

Cassius sends him out on the only horse they own and Dream does his best not to show just how much that affects him. The sweet cake Ameilia carefully packs away does nothing to help prevent him from crying.

They have been so kind to him, for no reason. They can’t replace his parents, can’t replace his mom, but he can’t help but feel as though they have been his parents. At least for a time.

They’ve loved him and guided him when he was at his absolute lowest. Dream doesn’t know how he can express the sheer amount of gratitude he feels. His choked out thank you doesn’t seem like enough, but it’s all he can offer in the moment.

The ride to the Roman and Greek border is long, and gives him plenty of time to think.

Tensions between the Greeks and Romans have always been high, with their conflicting gods and politics. Though Dream was born Greek and believes in their gods, their afterlife, he’s being sent to fight on the side of the Romans. It doesn’t bother him, that he’s being sent to kill his fellow man, his fellow Greeks. After all, what have they done for him?

For that matter, what have the gods done for him? They made him undying and for what reason? Is it not a curse, knowing that you will outlive all those that love you? What has he done to deserve their wrath?

Still, his own apathy bothered him, and when he asked Cassius, the man had just shrugged. “War is war, son. It’s more real than blood, and more binding than your heritage. You may have been born a Greek, as I was, but if you fight for the side of Rome, you are Roman.”

That hadn’t really answered his question, but Dream chose not to pry any deeper. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t go well.

Still, the journey was long and by the time he got to the camp he was exhausted. Usually he would be more than happy to go around and meet everyone, but his thighs hurt from the saddle he’s been riding in and his back is sore from sleeping on the ground.

Dream used to do that everyday, but a year of healing has done more for him than he realized. He wonders if his body will learn again before these battles are done.

He rides into camp, and wonders what exactly he’s supposed to be doing.

Cassius told him to meet up with the general, a man by the name of Servius, and tell him he was sent by Cassius, but Dream has no idea where he is. A look around the camp gives him no clues, and he sighs.

He turns to the first man he sees and waves. “Hello,” he says, “I was sent here by Cassius Martialis. I was told to speak to Servius?”

The man looks his over, dark grey eyes narrowed shrewdly. Dream wonders for a moment if his accent was too noticeably Greek, if he will be cast out before he even has a chance to defend himself.

“And who might you be, stranger, and why do you wear a mask?” Dream blinks at the response. The man’s voice is surprisingly cold and biting, and it reminds him of harsh nights with no covering.

He shakes himself out of the thought quickly before saying, “Dream, and-.” He falters for a moment.

Dream knows why he wears the mask, why he feels the need to hide from those around him, but he hasn’t had a need to explain himself before. Those who asked, he readily ignored and those who didn’t were usually those close enough to him that they weren’t bothered by the sight of it.

He thinks back to stares of pity, of disdain. To the searing heat of the weight of their gazes. He thinks of the way they would sneer at him behind his back, would look afraid at the sight of how young he was even when they couldn’t see his face.

Why does Dream wear the mask? He feels vulnerable without it, and that is a dangerous feeling. To expose one’s weakest parts of themself and trust that those around would not tear it in two. But at the same time, is he not a new person now? He has a new life, here, in Rome, where no one but Wilbur knows who he really is. And a name is just a name, he will not be known just from it.

He thinks of his mother’s smile, the memory of it pressed on his mask. Has he recovered enough to go without it? He’s already shown Wilbur his face, his closest friend. Could he remove the mask?

Dream knows that if he doesn’t, there’s a possibility of his fellow soldiers not trusting him, knows that could be dangerous in battle. Knows it could lead to their death, if they did not trust that he would have their backs.

If Wilbur knows, surely he could go without it? Surely he could leave the mask behind and move on as a new person?

He looks at the mistrusting gaze of the man in front of him and asks himself, _does he have a choice?_ After all, no good comes from those who hide their identity.

With a deep breath he brings his hands up to the edge of it, feels the ceramic against his fingertips. Then, with a quick exhale, he takes it off. “No reason,” he says, and is glad that he keeps his voice from shaking.

The man looks at him, from where Dream sits upon his horse, and nods his head. “Come,” he says, “I will show you where you may store your horse, and then we can continue.”

Dream nods, hopping down from his horse. He and the man, who he learns is named Tertius, lead the horse to the stable. On the way he learns of the general layout of the camp, where he’ll be sleeping, and what is expected of him.

Tertius guides him over to the main tent, where he finds Servius hunched over a table. Tertius stands at the entrance, his gaze a heavy weight on Dream. Dream pushes back the unease the action sends through him, turning towards Servius.

Servius is an imposing man. Though he’s shorter than Dream is, his close cropped hair and scarred face, combined with the scowl and calculating eyes gives him an air of someone far larger. It makes sense, however. After all, this man has been through countless battles and has survived them all. He’s been a part of the sieges on Greece and has been very, very successful.

Dream finds himself standing at his full height, looking into Servius’ eyes. He wonders if this is how Artemis’ prey feels, looking into the eyes of someone who could very well kill them.

Even knowing that he can’t die, Dream can’t help the surge of animalistic fear that shudders through him.

“Cassius Martialis sent me, sir. Said you were in need of decent soldiers and that I met the standards.” Looking into this man’s eyes, he can’t help but wish he could grab his mask from his horse’s saddle. But it’s a futile want.

There is no protection here.

The thought sends twin feelings of fear and anticipation flowing through his veins.

“Servius. And if that man says you’re good I'm inclined to believe him. One wrong move, though, and it won’t just be your head on a pike, understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good,” he maintains eye contact for another moment before nodding. Dream thinks he may have passed a test, though what test he’s unsure of. Servius looks behind him at Tertius, “Take him to the barracks. Get him acquainted quickly, we have a war to win.”

Tertius shows him around, and it seems his passing of Servius’ test has loosened his fellow soldier. Stormy eyes have parted, and a gentle blue has taken its place. His movements are languid, and relaxed, and Dream even hears a laugh, boisterous and happy in a way that Dream finds himself mimicking.

It’s odd, the difference approval will make. Just how much someone can change when their walls are torn down.

Dream quickly slots into life at the camp. It’s not the most comfortable at first. He doesn’t know what to talk about or what to do or who they even are, but the moment he picks up a sword he relaxes. The weight is familiar, and that familiarity causes his shoulders to drop, his stance to relax, and he feels a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

He’s in a practice arena with Tertius, who has quickly become a friend. The idea is that they’re going to see how good Dream really is, to see where he is going to fit in. Dream feels confidence settle into his bones, knowing just how good he really is.

Green eyes lock onto blue ones and Dream feels heat jolt down his spine at the heavy lids of Tertius’ eyes. He doesn’t have time to feel shocked before he’s being attacked.

It's as easy as breathing to bring his sword up, an extension of his arm. He blocks the strike that would have come down on his neck. A quick pivot on his heel has him next to Tertius, neatly avoiding the follow up punch to his gut had he stayed still.

The sound of metal sliding against metal is like music to his ears, and he brings the flat of his blade quickly to Tertius’ stomach. Tertius blocks quickly, taken aback by Dream’s movements, but good enough to keep up regardless.

They lock eyes again, and that same heat leeches down Dream’s spine and makes its home deep in his gut.

From there it’s like a dance, choreographed to perfection. The moves are punctuated by the clash of metal and the sound of heavy breathing. Block, slash, slash, dodge, block. For every give, there’s a take and Dream feels his blood begin to boil, heat raising back up and into his heart.

It ends, as all things do. Dream has maneuvered himself over Tertius, knees framing thighs, a sword to his throat. The gleam in Tertius’ eyes is magnetic, and Dream finds himself pressing closer, but carefully keeping the sword from cutting.

It’s because of this closeness that Dream hears Tertius murmur, “beautiful.” Dream feels his eyes widen, face flushing in a way he hopes he can explain due to the exertion. His heart swoops, and the simmer that’s been building begins to boil.

A loud clap interrupts them, Servius having watched over the spar. “Very good,” he says, and though he doesn’t smile, Dream feels elation cut through his annoyance.

That night he ponders on his reaction, on the heat of the bout. He bites his lip, and wonders if this is okay, if Gelasia would forgive him this attraction. He hadn’t thought himself capable of it, as much as he was grieving his loss, and it is a surprise to feel it once more.

There is no protection in war, however, and Dream can’t help but steal glances every now and then. Can’t help but admire the way moonlight spills over Tertius’ skin, lighting up divots in muscle and strength in his thighs. Can’t help but admire how he laughs, loud and bold and oh so charming.

Can’t help the way their sparring bouts get vicious, a battle of dominance and simmering heat. Can’t help but straddle those hips and press close.

At first, it’s just physical. Tertius is beautiful and he clearly feels as though Dream is as well. It’s the middle of a war and they are far from everyone, and though he feels guilty, Dream relishes in stolen kisses under the light of the moon.

It’s just physical, and Dream knows Gelasia would forgive him this. Would encourage him to pursue his happiness, but that’s not what this is. It’s just physical.

The first battle that Dream enters is exhilarating. It’s like the sparring bouts at camp dialed up to eleven, though it lacks the same heat that Tertius brings.

They’re fighting side by side, guarding each other's flanks. As easily as they move together when fighting against each other, they move even easier when fighting together. Though fellow soldiers fall, they hold the line. They push back against the Greeks, and grin victorious, bleeding sluggishly from wounds that are trivial at best.

It’s easy to pull Tertius in that night, and press biting kisses into his throat. Easy to swallow the sounds he makes. Easy to tell himself that it’s just physical.

They keep winning, keep pushing closer and closer, high off of closeness and victory.

Sometimes, though, underneath the stars, where no one can see them, they’ll simply talk.

Dream tells Tertius of his Greek heritage, and in turn he learns that Tertius fights for his country because he must, rather than out of any desire. Learns that Tertius shares his love for Greek legend.

His favorite is that of Icarus, he tells Dream, late one night. They haven’t battled today, and it leaves them restless. Though their bodies are tired from endless moving and training, their minds race. On nights like these, they talk the most.

Tertius tells him that Icarus has always fascinated him. Tells Dream that he had learned it while young and that the message has always stayed with him. That Tertius does his best to live his life as it is, do the best with what he has, and is thankful for it. He doesn’t reach for more than he has, because he doesn’t need him.

Tertius tells him this, smiling up at the moon, and turns his head to face Dream. Tells him he has everything he needs right here, that there is no need to leave the tower of war in search of more.

Their kisses are softer that night, and it’s harder for Dream to tell himself that it’s physical.

Harder to convince himself that war is good, when he looks into a small village they are controlling, and sees children looking up at him in fear. Harder, when he sees the way it weighs heavily on everyone around him, to see children huddled away from them.

Harder to look into the flames of the desecrated city, knowing there was no way to get those children out as they burned it to the ground. Usually they would let the women and children leave, but the frustration of a seemingly never ending war has melted away any mercy the generals may have felt in the beginning.

Dream begins to wonder if there’s any point in it, when he will never make it into Elysium.

He thought, originally, that if he died in battle it would break his curse. That maybe if he earned enough honor in the eyes of the gods they would let him go. But when he wakes up to the smell of rot, his body whole and untouched when he remembers an arrow going right through his unprotected eyes, he knows it isn’t true.

He stumbles into camp late at night right into Tertius’ arms. He can no longer convince himself that it’s physical when any walls he may have had are dust at his feet. When there is nothing to hide behind, anymore. When he’s being held close, kissed gently, and the ghost of Gelasia comforts him in Tertius.

Dream doesn’t tell Tertius he loves him until it’s too late.

It’s been a two week long siege and things are more brutal and dire than the generals are willing to admit. Servius had been cut down a month ago, and a new man had taken his place. Aelius is young, but he’s smart. He’s willing to listen to his subordinates' ideas, and Dream has taken to him in a way that is almost surprising.

They work closely together, so Dream knows just how much the length of the battle is weighing on him. Can see the way the circles under his eyes get darker and deeper.

Still, Aelius is hopeful, knows that they can pull through. There is one last stand being planned, and Aelius puts Dream and Tertius on the front lines, tells them to lead, says he trusts them. Dream looks over to Tertius a tired smirk on his face.  
  
“Bet I can cut down more than you,” Dream taunts, summoning up whatever confidence and bravado he can to cover up his own exhaustion.

“You’re on,” Tertius returns, smile looking just as tired as Dream feels.

And it’s normal, it’s all normal. This isn’t the first time they’ve taken point, this isn’t their first battle, this isn’t the first time they’ve been put in charge of something important.

This is the first time, however, that Dream feels something strike his unguarded back.

He turns on his heel, instinct and honed reflexes guiding him to cut down his assailant. His eyes, however, are searching the field around him. Where’s Tertius?

_Where’s Tertius?_

The battlefield is chaos. Death is all around him, and Dream can hear it in the screams and choked off prayers in greek and latin around him. He ignores it with ease, with the experience and practice that comes with months spent fighting.

There, a few steps behind him. Tertius is-

Tertius-

There’s so much blood.

By the gods, _why is there so much blood?_

Dream drops, and the battlefield raging around him seems to quiet, seems to shrink, until his world is just Tertius’ face in his hands, Tertius’ blood, Tertius’ tears.

“No, no, no,” Dream pleads, “come on, stay with me, Tertius _please_.” It’s supposed to be Dream. Dream is the one that pulls the stupid stunts because he survives it always. Tertius isn’t supposed to be the one with blood dripping from his mouth, struggling to breathe. He’s supposed to be laughing, supposed to be bathed in the moonlight.

He’s supposed to kiss Dream and tell him that he’s amazing. He’s supposed to be alive so Dream can love him.

But love, as powerful as it may be, can’t stop death. Hades’ pull is far stronger, and Dream watches the light leave his eyes and screams.

Things are blurry after that, hazy. Dream grabs a sword and throws all caution to the wind. He’s fucking immortal, what do these guys have on him? What can they really do?

He cuts his way through the people around him, not caring what side they’re on. Distantly he hopes that his fellow soldiers stay out of the way, but if they don’t well.

Dream doesn’t care. His ability to care just died in his arms a few minutes ago, so fuck it. He’ll burn them all to ash. Burn them until they’re an inferno as empty as Dream is.

He thinks that he catches a glimpse of a red cape and pink hair glinting in the sunlight, as he whirls around and decapitates someone. They’re kneeling down next to Tertius, eyes closed.

Dream rips an arrow out of his arm and shoves it through someone’s throat, and the figure is gone.

He continues his slaughter, until he feels like he can’t anymore. Then he pushes that feeling down and sinks his sword into someone’s guts and twists.

Hours later, the sun is setting and Dream starts to come back into his own body.

The battle is done, but still Dream rages. He hurts, his heart _hurts_ so much. There is no protection in war, he knows that, has known that.

He just forgot, for a moment or three, just the kinds of things he would have to learn to protect himself from. Forgot, in heavy breathing, and slick tongues, and whispered fears, that love is not too far from war. That Aphrodite and Ares were a deadly combination and it was always the mortals that suffered the most.

Is this what Icarus felt like, that moment when he realized that the wax wouldn’t hold? Is this the pride that would be his downfall? Did Dream really think the gods would let him continue that easily? That they would not lash out at him for daring to love in the face of their punishment?

Dream is fast falling and he has no way to slow his descent into the bitter, coppery taste of rage and despair.

He stands on unsteady legs, ignoring the gore of those who dared to fight him laying at his feet. The scent of their fear is still in the air and it does nothing to simmer the heat in his heart. Does nothing to weld the cracks together. Instead it spurs him forward, one stumbling step after the other.

He makes it to his horse and, more importantly, the pack that’s been on her since the very beginning. He reaches in, blood soaked fingers slipping on the straps. His hands are shaking, adrenaline refusing to leave his body, and it nearly makes him drop the object in his hands.

His mask, in his hands once more. The once pristine white surface is stained with age. Dirt and soot have changed the color to a dirty brown, and the black lines of a smile have faded. Now, bloody handprints will leave their mark, and the smile will no longer be visible.

_How appropriate_ , Dream thinks, a tad hysterical. _It’s just as dirty as I am._

He brings it to his face, tightens it against himself until it melds into his skin. It presses so close it hurts, but Dream doesn’t care. There is no protection in war, but he’s an immortal. He breaks all the rules regardless, so what’s one more?

Dream grabs a sword, any sword, from the pile of viscera around him. It doesn’t matter if it’s his, he will learn to wield it just as well. He hops on his horse, gently spurring her on, making his way back to camp.

Dream tightens the mask until he can’t. He doesn’t take it off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuuh don't hate me too much? Listen, you can't have comfort without the hurt okay? Still, sorry?
> 
> Anyway, really quickly I just want to say thank you. The response I have gotten has been absolutely unreal. We're at almost 1000 hits which is insane to me! Like, I never thought it would expand past the discord and we have over 100 kudos! So many of you have kudos, and subscribed, and bookmarked, and commented and I just- wow. Thank you all so much. This is crazy to me, the response. I honestly don't know what to say other than thank you. Thank you for reading, for enjoying, for following along. Honestly the only reason this has continued to update as quickly as it has is because of the encouragement you guys keep providing so thank you.
> 
> Special thank you to the Dakota ([heytherestilinski on tumblr](https://heytherestilinski.tumblr.com/) for coming up with this idea and encouraging me to write fic for it. To the discord for constantly encouraging me when I post snippets. To you, for reading this. Thank you all <3
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, concerns, etc. direct them to my [tumblr](https://tinydemondragon.tumblr.com/%22)! I’m more likely to see it there first.

**Author's Note:**

> chapters may or may not get longer as I go since that tends to be how it goes with me. uh, it gets better?
> 
> feel free to ask any questions or simply yell at me in the comments or come on over to my [tumblr](https://tinydemondragon.tumblr.com/)! I’m more likely to see it there first tbh.
> 
> and sorry again. it'll get better I promise!


End file.
